Night Blooming by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Read Free Book Online

flesh. That is our sin remembered.” He regarded the others with narrowed eyes.
    “May God send you lice, then, Fratre,” said one of the soldiers, “to add to your sanctity.”
    “Amen,” said the monk, briefly bowing his head before he took his place in their group once more.
    When they reached the ford of Sant’ Wigbod, the river was high, and the current was swift; part of the gravel bar that had marked the eastern side of the ford was gone, and two heavy guy-ropes bore mute testimony that the ford now had to be ferried across. The bank on the far side rose more steeply than the arm of the bar on this, indicating that getting back on the road once they were across would be a serious task, requiring extra effort and planning to do the task properly.
    “Find the men who tend this place, and bring them here at once,” Otfrid ordered two of the soldiers who accompanied them. “We must get over shortly, or darkness will overtake us before we reach the inn.” He pointed to the south. “There is a meadow not far from here, where they graze their goats and cattle. You should be able to find four men to aid us.”
    “Tell them they’ll have silver for their troubles,” Rakoczy added. “Silver with Karlus’ name upon it.”
    The soldiers obeyed at once, forcing their hot, tired horses to a bone-jarring trot as they sought out the men who kept their animals in this part of the forest.
    While the two soldiers were gone, Fratre Angelomus dismounted and recited the mid-afternoon prayers his calling required. The rest of the group echoed his Amen and tried to do their best to seem devout out of respect for Karlus, who insisted that all men in religious Orders be given the same respect his Potenti received. When the monk was finished, he got back on his horse and continued to wait with the rest.
    When the two soldiers returned a while later, they brought with them five roughly dressed louts whose language was a strange amalgam of Frankish and Celtic, barely comprehendible and hard on the ear.
    “They all insisted on coming,” said Rotgaud, the older of the two soldiers. “Each wants a coin.” He glanced at Rakoczy. “Well?”
    “They shall have them,” said Rakoczy, opening the leather wallet that hung from his belt and removing half-a-dozen silver coins. “Here,” he said, holding out his gloved hand with the coins shining against the black leather.
    The peasants exchanged glances, and one of them made a gesture that seemed to convey consent; two of the men went off to fetch the raft they used for ferrying while the other three began to assess the loads to be carried, taking obvious precautions to touch nothing until Otfrid signaled them it was all right to do so.
    “What do you think?” Fratre Angelomus said to Rakoczy.
    “About what?”
    “These men—do they know the worth of those coins, or are they only fascinated by their shine? Men like this”—he smiled slightly—“you could probably give them a small amount and they would be as satisfied as they would be with a larger one, so long as the silver is untarnished.”
    “I have found,” Rakoczy said with a cordiality that was belied by his enigmatic gaze, “that men who labor know the value of what they do. If they do not know the worth of their work, I should do, and give them payment commensurate with their moil, as I expect to have from these men.” He took the largest coins from his wallet and slipped them inside his glove where he could be sure of having them ready when they were needed. “I have also found that I am better served in this world if I give full value for effort.”
    Fratre Angelomus cocked his head. “Is it so,” he murmured. “Well, so long as the Church receives her due, and Karl-lo-Magne, you may do as you wish, I suppose.”
    Rakoczy said nothing more to the monk; there was a silence between them that was heavier than the heat.
    “The men are coming back,” said Rotgaud, pointing toward the peasants pulling a broad,